Perspectives

I make coffee before I put on my glasses

and stand at the counter, squinting

out the window, trying to decide

if it’s raining,

like some half-formed little mole creature

unready for the sun.

These are the most honest moments

of the day, the morning still emerging

out of wet clay, the minutes when

you can still see the lines under the paint,

the stagehands slowly rolling up

the blue sky over the dark one

like so much wallpaper.

By the time I find my glasses,

it is definitely not raining but

still there is evidence:

the concrete darkened,

the grass damp, the ink still wet

on the world.

That’s hope, isn’t it,

that we are not finished–

when things get remade

every morning, there is still time

for the fruit to ripen, the dough

to rise, and someone to sweep

a brush through it all and paint

a better world